


Love You For A Long Time

by jencsi



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29560335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencsi/pseuds/jencsi
Summary: Belated 6 year coma anniversary fic. Shameless fluff as always. Same fluff, different day. Set over the course of February 13th-15th.
Relationships: Julie "Finn" Finlay/Nick Stokes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Love You For A Long Time

She ached for this weekend. The pain in her chest as the days dwindled away leading up to it was intense, tight, burning. I want to see you, she begged via a tearful phone call a few days ago Please? Her soft tone and wavering voice over the line let him know she was hurting, aching for this trip, wanting to get away from Vegas, from memories and emotions she was not looking forward to revisiting when Monday the fifteenth came around. Despite the strong support from Russell and the others, there was still a part of her heart that did not quite heal from that fateful day. It was a pain only she knew and only he could soothe. 

Naturally, it made sense when she charged at him in the airport pick up terminal that morning after landing safely, launching into his awaiting arms, throwing hers around his neck. He was always quick at catching her, holding on, squeezing her tight, just the way she liked, making up for lost time. Clingy. They had been apart since Christmas. She started to curl her hair again, he noticed, perhaps longing for the nostalgia of her life prior to the coma. When she ran to him, he was instantly taken back to the first time she careened into his arms, knocking him back a few steps, her force intense, holding on tight, sobbing in agony from a vicious attack that revealed their relationship to the world, those curls bouncing wildly then, now, every time she moved. No complaints. 

When she let go of him, she was smiling, madly, grinning big, uncontrollable, smitten. Her forehead pressed right against his, lips finding his, kissing once, twice. 

“Did you miss me?” he asked between kisses, in a quiet, low, intoxicating tone. 

She nods, too preoccupied with kissing him again to answer properly. He felt a swooping feeling in his stomach when she smiled and kissed him again, as if they had just started dating, and not spent almost nine years together. What a number. What of that time that had passed? It was only yesterday. This is what she was trying to tell him and show him, what she was aching for, simpler times, fresh love, endless kisses, no distractions. 

“Did you miss me?” she asks now, trying to mimic the low tone of his voice in hers. 

“Every day,” he admits, pressing his forehead against hers now, one hand resting on the back of her head, keeping her steady, tangling fingers in her curls, missing that affection during her change of hairstyle. 

Such a simple exchange for them, but full of so many emotions, too many days apart, three days to remedy that ache. 

The beach, something else she ached for. Her eyes wandered out the window to the sand and water as they drove to the condo, itching to get out and play, but with the air temperature only in the mid to low sixties for this time of year, and the water likely twenty degrees below that, tossing herself into waves, sinking into warm sand under the hot sun was not going to happen this weekend. 

“Soon,” he promised her, reaching across the arm rest to pick up her hand and run his thumb across her fingers gently. She turns her hand over, palm facing up so she can lace her fingers around his in a proper secure hold for the rest of the short drive. 

The condo looms in sight and she perks up, energized by this space, something unique for the two of them, a hiding spot, a getaway, somewhere to run to, escape. She thinks this is luxury and it makes him feel like a king being able to give her these trips and this space, the beach when applicable. She hops out of the passenger side of his SUV. She gathers up her travel bag and he carries the one small suitcase she packed. Some of her clothes reside here already for times like this, something he loves to stumble across by accident on the days she’s back in Vegas. A shirt here, some jeans there, hair ties on the counter, her shampoo in the shower, little reminders of her that jolt his heart, reminding him that he is lucky, his life is good, she’s all around him even a million miles away.

The sun stays for the afternoon. She guides him out to the back patio space, a wooden porch with support beams, painted a navy blue to match the theme of the area, nautical. She nudges him towards the large hammock draped between two of these poles, bumping her shoulder against his as they walk side by side across the porch, barefoot. He settles back first, adjusting to the swaying, feeling his stomach swoop again. She joins him, climbing on top, laying first on her side to get settled, then turning on to her stomach, across his body, head on his chest, perfect. She curls her arms up against her chest, closes her eyes and sighs. This is what she wanted so desperately, for days, weeks. He makes the hammock sway gently, slow enough to relax them but not too much to make them dizzy. 

Instinctively, his arms raise and rest around her body. She nuzzles against him when she feels this contact, turning her head to face the view of the ocean, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt. She soaks up every detail of him; the soft fabric of his shirt against her cheek, the warmth of his body under hers, the hint of cologne likely lingering from this morning when she imagined him getting ready to come and pick her up. Familiarity trickles back to her subconscious as a breeze wraps them in a soothing flow of air. 

He holds her silently, arms wrapped lazily around her tiny frame. He missed her warmth beside him all those nights alone here. She comforts him just by breathing deep and slow, more than likely set to fall asleep here, lulled. His stomach swoops pleasantly every time she shifts and presses herself closer to him. Enthralled with her, he shifts her in his hold, letting one hand reach up, find her neck and brush back all of her hair, sweeping it to the side. The breeze washes over them again at the exact time he brushes her hair, exposing her neck to the chill of the air. His fingers brush against the side of her neck, tickling, so light, so airy, barely touching. It’s enough to make her shiver intensely, touch starved. He smiles at her reaction, exactly what he wanted. He keeps going, grazing her neck, fluttering against her soft skin, dragging his fingers around to the back of her neck, purposely brushing more of her hair to the side just to keep her shivering against him beautifully. 

She’s melting, his tender touch making her body feel numb, like she’s floating on air instead of this hammock. His attention to detail drives her wild, making sure to brush each finger against her neck, feather light, always tickling. Giggles escape her, uncontrollable, sweet, faint. He wanders down to her shoulders which ache with tension from the flight and other aspects of work that weigh on her, especially what looms ahead on Monday, so much pain, so much darkness. She scrunches her face in discomfort at the thought of those memories but he mistakes that for a reaction to his touch and he ceases.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes barely audible in protest, wiggling, wanting more. 

When he begins again, sliding his fingers delicately against her neck, she reaches up with her hand and grabs onto his gently. 

“Here,” she guides his hand to rest on her lower back, a sweet demand for more affection. 

He has no trouble shifting his focus there, brushing his fingers against her lower back instead, taking care to lift at the fabric of her shirt and slide his hand underneath, touching down on soft, warm, bare skin. Her immediate shiver makes him smile again. Getting her to relax is his specialty. Relishing in the softness and warmth her relaxed state provides him is a bonus. A single finger traces slow circles around the base of her spine while another returns to graze the back of her neck, sweeping his thumb along her cheek which twitches at the surprise contact. 

In the five love languages, physical touch is their forte. She feels vulnerable yet secure with him when he lays her down, surrounded by pillows and blankets, the perfect nest, hideaway, secret space, just for them. He guides her back with one hand on her stomach that ignites a wonderful swooping feeling there which lingers when he doesn’t let go of this soft spot. She reels with affection for him, pressing her forehead against his, keeping her arms raised and wrapped around his neck. 

Playful, her second favorite way to be with him after passion and third to sleep laden. He can’t stop tousling her hair, letting his fingers get tangled up in her newly restored curls. 

“I missed this,” he confesses of her love and her hair. 

She scrunches up her face, smitten, delighted, touching her finger to his nose, a playful tap. She traces down the side of his face, under his chin, tickling against his neck, knowing he’s touch starved too. It’s the perfect way to lure him into tightening his arms around her, reeling her in, bumping her hip against his, sliding his hands under her shirt while she gasps and holds her breath. When his fingers press into her sides, she squeaks, helpless as he digs them in, tickling away, just there, fluttering against the soft, tender muscles with ease. Her giggles, so beautiful, her love for this game and play, unwavering. Her breathless protests fall on deaf ears as he savors each move he can make against her skin that will earn him more of her hearty laughter. Pressing down on the soft spot where her side meets her hip generates a hearty laugh from her as she claws frantically at his hands now, the tingling in her stomach intense. 

He will cease, only to give her the chance to catch her breath, stealing it away further with the gentle way he slides his fingers up her side, fluttering against delicate ribs. He savors this contact, taking his time, moving slow on purpose, tracing shapes and circles on her skin. He adores her content sigh and soft giggles in between kisses as they hide away here in this safe space, sharing affections and soft touches. She tickles him back, nuzzling in against his neck, hair tickling, those curls living up to their reputation, kissing lightly, her fingers fluttering along his shoulder, sneaking under his shirt collar to find bare skin, smitten. They have hours to go before they sleep. 

Time is all she wants from him, the only gift she needs, she insists. She knows how fragile her life was all those years ago, hanging in limbo, somewhere between reality and whatever was on the other side. Being far enough away from Vegas, the scene of the crime, allows her to ponder more on the what ifs and what was it like, that night, the days, weeks and months after. She wants a play by play and it kills him that he can’t give it to her because he wasn’t there everyday, not like the others. 

“Was it scary?” she asked quietly from the safety of his arms, the master bedroom, the oversized bed she adored and always felt like royalty when she lay here with him and in the bed they shared back in Vegas. 

“Terrifying,” he says, shifting his arms around her tighter. She hears the crinkling of the sheets and mattress as he moves her, enveloping her with his strong hold, bringing her to him and the cooler side of the sheets. 

It hurts her to think of the pain he endured waiting, wondering for her to wake up. If she knew how to force herself to respond, to break the coma hold, she would have screamed and yelled until she was hoarse. 

“Why didn’t I feel anything?” she wants to know, touching his cheek with the back of her hand “why didn’t I hear you or the guys and all the things you were doing to wake me up?”

“It’s not like sleeping darling,” he reminds her, kissing her wrist. 

She nods, knowing that truth, that terrifying reality. She closes her eyes and scrunches her face, searching her subconscious for some memory of their efforts to reach her from beyond the darkness that was cast over her. When nothing but Winthrop’s face and her own screams come through her memory vault, shattered glass, knocked over furniture, her blood, the heaviness in her head, she shudders. 

“I see him,” she confesses “all the time, when I process scenes at night, especially in someone’s house, in the shadows on the walls, in the patterns of other people’s blood, when Sam growls at something outside that I can’t see.”

She raises one arm and waves her hand in the open air, describing the shadows and patterns. 

“He’s not there,” Nick insists, promises her “he won’t ever see daylight again, you made sure of that sweetness.”

As soothing as he thinks he sounds, it guts him that he cannot stop the psychopath from invading her beautiful mind, burning a hole in her subconscious, triggering images only she knows. 

“What if Russell didn’t get there first?” she wonders now “what if it was you or Sara or someone else?”

“You know what I would have done to him if I got my hands on him,” he reminds her, not ready to relive that violence, the rage that plagued him for hours, days after hearing the news of her attack. His sudden squeezing of her side, protective, an pseudo outlet for the violence he can’t inflict on Winthrop makes her flinch, grab his hand and hold on loosely. 

“I know,” she whispers, picking up his hand, cradling it against her, nuzzling her cheek against his rough skin, grateful for that intensity he brings to wanting to protect her. 

“He would have hurt all of you” she continues this treacherous trek into unknown territory. 

Nick doesn’t have the heart to tell her Winthrop already did hurt them all that night. Powerless, he envelops her tighter, cradling. Silently, he ducks his head, nuzzling into the crook of her neck, pressing a kiss there, feeling her tremble, her voice faltering again as she asks, crackly, broken, hoarse; “What if I died?”

Not possible, that’s his knee jerk reaction, she’s indestructible, but her mortality is a fate he will have to accept at some point. Having faced his own mortality on several occasions, it is surreal to feel it alongside someone else. Silence speaks volumes as neither one of them responds. He feels her shaking, awaiting an answer, heart beating faster with each passing minute of silence. 

“Don’t,” he finally replies, soft, gentle, begging her “don’t think about that.” 

He tries to distract her with more kisses against her neck, down her shoulder, reminding her of the life she has which is good and sweet and kind, but she tenses up, resisting, turning her head, shrugging her shoulder, forcing him to cease and lift his head to look at her properly. 

“I can’t,” she confesses tearfully “I can’t make it stop.” 

And now he understands, she’s not upset by what happened, she’s upset by what could have been. He has no cure for her wounded soul other than what feels like cheap romance and grand gestures, presents, treats, this time away from the city, but a hug can’t fix this. Words are not band aids. Kisses don’t stitch together broken hearts. Her wounds are too deep, bleeding out before him with no tourniquet to be found. 

She chokes on a sob as it escapes her, realizing how horrible this sounds, how she’s ruining the only good thing she has in her life with her morbid line of thinking. She lowers her head, sliding off the pillow, ashamed, embarrassed, not sure where to go from here with him. But he doesn’t let her win at hiding from him. He holds her face in both his hands, lifting her head back to look at him properly, wiping the tears that have fallen down her cheeks with his thumb. Truth be told, he’s had these exact same thoughts that she is having, and found no solace in any distraction or comfort. 

“Then don’t,” he changed his course with her “I know it hurts, but let it.”

She blinks, confused at first, then realizing what he means, he’s letting her know it’s okay to dwell on her pain because even he can’t remedy it, nor his own, at that’s the cross they must bear, but that doesn’t mean they can’t function on the daily. The looming darkness will always be there, but it’s better to manage it then deny it residence in their souls nor claim a false victory over it. 

“Do you feel safe?” he whispers against her forehead and she nods, because it’s true. Vulnerability only creeps up in her chest when some reminder of the attack and recovery causes her brain to short circuit and default back to feeling helpless. 

“Do you feel loved?” he asks now, again in a whisper, sliding his arms around her, readjusting his tender hold. 

She nods, because this is also true. She feels love from him, from her friends and colleagues back in Vegas, she’s not alone in this battle. 

“Come live here,” he whispers now, ducking his head, pressing his cheek against hers, nuzzling, soft, tender, making her shiver. 

She runs the implications, pros and cons of doing just that through her mind at warp speed. She imagines waking up this way every day, to kisses, soft tickles, tender touches, not having to wait weeks or months for these moments, seeing the beach on the daily, basking in the warm sun, holding his hand. He has already given her so much, his heart, his time, his love, constant affection and dedication. She holds his face in her hands, caressing his cheek gently, so in love with him and his care for her. 

“I can’t” she cries “I love you and this sounds crazy but, I like meeting like this, after time apart, I can’t explain it, it just feels, different, better.”

To her relief, he smiles, enveloping her in his strong study hold, seeming to know that would be her answer but willing to offer anyways. 

She doesn’t know what else to say but luckily words are not needed. He takes care to run his fingers through her hair now, scratching gently on the back of her head, a sore spot that doesn’t get the attention it needs since the attack. His touch there sends shivers down her spine. A single finger tracing along the scar that occupies her forehead soothes her further. She may never know what could have been that night, nor will she ever get back every waking second that ticked by while she was in a coma, and she will always have questions, but she has him, and her life back. With all the time that had passed, she assumed the healing process would progress naturally but that wasn’t the case. It zig zagged, detoured, gave her whiplash, turned her life upside down and that was the ultimate reminder of her survival; not the during but the after.


End file.
